Category Archives: Sonnet Practice
A drop in thousand rides a tidal wave
of thousand voices doth a chorus form
It wavers hardly inches from the norm –
upon it, streets of lives of hopes are paved
Yet thinketh, grasping in an iron first
lays sand too find – of it we think too light
the Knowledge in it we mistake as might
(Against good sense – wholeheartedly resist!)
But mist to mist imagination drifts
To rot, to dust, go our forsaken gifts
But lo, beyond a fine cerulean haze
as stepping from the shadows grey, and yet
we gaze upon the fleeting silhouettes
against a greater backdrop silence plays
In distance gleams a stony marble face
whose outline brows a vintage timepiece still
lords over, oversees, observes, until
The age surrounds us with her sweet embrace.
A chime like foghorn, steel on hammer strike
sounds strong above its trove of eras past
Whilst hands of pewter perched on chromium mast
turn wordlessly round rich and poor alike…
…and down the slide of sweet Circadian wine
poured over light of incandescent hue
evolving atmospheres, and then imbues
it with the spirit – transcends faint earth-shines.
then easing into plains of verdant peace
against all better sense, my mind shall cease
English Sonnet practice. Written in response to Danse Macabre, as part of a bid to write not-completely-devoid-of-concrete-inspiration.
Bow stolen from the soldier’s private stash
Death strung the catgut, pliant, over wood
She turned down one but all that were not ash
Upon her vapid thrusts her army stood
Bells rang out loud and clear across the bog
Which silence broke until the clattering host
Oblivious to the rising, steaming fog
They waltzed – to soloist, they made a toast
To all things two would do but none would say
In life, for life, behind the dark of night
And stand for it until the judgment day
Whilst new moon cloaked lost innocence and blight
Lips spoke nought but Death already would know
From herself did both rot and pleasure grow
Translated original text upon which the musical piece was based on (quoted from Wikipedia):
“An English translation of the poem follows:
Zig, zig, zig, Death in cadence,
Striking a tomb with his heel,
Death at midnight plays a dance-tune,
Zig, zig, zag, on his violin.
The winter wind blows, and the night is dark;
Moans are heard in the linden trees.
White skeletons pass through the gloom,
Running and leaping in their shrouds.
Zig, zig, zig, each one is frisking,
You can hear the cracking of the bones of the dancers.
A lustful couple sits on the moss
So as to taste long lost delights.
Zig zig, zig, Death continues
The unending scraping on his instrument.
A veil has fallen! The dancer is naked.
Her partner grasps her amorously.
The lady, it’s said, is a marchioness or baroness
And her green gallant, a poor cartwright.
Horror! Look how she gives herself to him,
Like the rustic was a baron.
Zig, zig, zig. What a saraband!
They all hold hands and dance in circles.
Zig, zig, zag. You can see in the crowd
The king dancing among the peasants.
But hist! All of a sudden, they leave the dance,
They push forward, they fly; the cock has crowed.
Oh what a beautiful night for the poor world!
Long live death and equality!”
Yep. Saint Saens was mad as well.
P.S. So I found this on youtube. It’s a bit psychedelic at first but I’m sure, dear reader, after a little persuasion you’ll dance along as well.
It literally took on a life of its own. Rhyme scheme turned out to be: abba cddc effe gg
And I awoke – the Earth was made of glass
But right beneath my nose was concrete grey
And for the longest moment did it stay
My sanity which might soon come to pass
My hands turned into birds of paradise
Upon the starry wings of colours hale
At once a mirage and a snowswept gale
On tabletops did they meet their demise
For grounded – nay, we nailed them to the ground
We drove a wooden stake into each heart
While clipping plumage till it was an art
To still the passions cold ere they were found
So wake at day and sleep by night I try
Thus water of life and of hope runs dry